For King & Country (25 page)

"When the day comes, Gwalchmai, you'll be strong enough to lift and carry it. This, I vow before God."

The child who would be king put the torque into his uncle's hands and he slipped it back around his own neck. "Thank you, Gwalchmai. I will wear it in your honor until you are ready to receive it back again, as a man fully grown."

The boy hugged him spontaneously. The slight little body was trembling. "Don't die, too!"

He kissed the boy's hair again. "That, my little king, is in God's hands. But I will take great care, this I promise."

When Ancelotis glanced up, he found Morgana watching with tears streaming down her face, holding her younger son in her arms and rocking him gently. "Gwalchmai," he said gently, "your mother needs you, lad."

The boy looked around, saw his mother's tears, and ran to her. "Don't cry, Mamma, I'll protect you!"

A strangled sound escaped her, then she was on her knees, clutching her older son close and weeping against his neck. Ancelotis left silently, allowing them the privacy their grief demanded. Now, seated in the arena, preparing to watch the ritual combat about to transpire, Gwalchmai all but glued himself to his mother's side, face a pale blur in the distance. The boy was doubtless terrified that he would lose an uncle, this day, right before his eyes.

And there wasn't a thing he could have done to disabuse the child of that notion, since he knew in his bones that was precisely what Cutha intended. He would have liked to have spared the child the sight of this combat, but he would do the boy no favors by sheltering him—nor would such a course serve Gododdin's best interests. It was brutal, the harsh reality that a king must learn from his very childhood, if he were to govern wisely. That ugly reality didn't stop Ancelotis from wishing, rather desperately, that little Gwalchmai didn't have to learn it quite so soon.

Ancelotis clenched his jaw even tighter when he realized Ganhumara sat on the boy's other side, offering neither comfort nor even acknowledgment of the child's presence. Artorius' wife blazed in a shimmer of copper hair and flame-colored woolen gown, a startling contrast beside Morgana's black mourning attire. Ganhumara seemed to flicker around the edges against the slate-colored sky, wildfire against the looming threat of thunder. Ancelotis wasn't proud of the thought, but couldn't help thinking it, either:
Pray God that one never has children. She'd let them starve for affection among the dogs of her kennels, while she flipped her skirts at whatever had caught her fancy for the moment.

Stirling, watching through Ancelotis' eyes, agreed darkly.

A burst of raucous laughter from behind brought Ancelotis and Stirling around in the saddle. Cutha and his personal guard contingent were making their way across a broad meadow beyond the racing arena, through a substantial herd of horses and ponies left to graze by visitors in from the countryside. Cutha's men were accompanied by a contingent of stone-faced soldiers wearing the colors and insignia of Rheged's
cataphracti.

Whatever the Saxons had been up to, at least they'd done it under the scrutiny of Briton military might. Cutha gestured toward Emrys Myrddin and Ancelotis, then said something that drew howls of laughter from his companions. Most of Cutha's men swayed in the terminal stages of drunkenness, clearly having indulged in an extended celebration which had continued right through until morning and apparently had no intention of ending until Cutha had actually defeated his opponent on the field.

"Overconfident windbags," Ancelotis muttered, drawing a chuckle from Emrys Myrddin.

Stirling, however, had noted quite narrowly that Cutha neither swayed in his saddle nor appeared to be even the slightest bit drunk. Creoda, riding in his wake, had gone from looking like a scared rabbit to resembling a potted one, badly drunk and too terrified in his drunkenness to put so much as a toe wrong in Cutha's presence.

"Looks to
me,"
Stirling muttered under his breath, "like he holds his liquor better than his pals do. Jolly wonderful."

A shout went up from the arena and signal trumpets blared as the footrace competitors, having made one more complete circuit of the track, shot past a finish line marked with white chalk. They slowed to a halt, many of them gasping deeply for breath. The winner jubilantly retraced his route, jogging a victory lap before halting at the royal pavilion halfway down the homestretch. The panting victor climbed sandstone steps up from the track and bowed low to Thaney and Meirchion. The king of Rheged made some sort of speech, which Stirling couldn't hear, then Thaney laid an honest-to-god laurel wreath on the winner's head. It had been made from actual leaves, rather than the more opulent golden versions which competitors in the Eternal City had aspired to win although at second glance, they looked more like oak leaves than laurel. As the crowned victor accepted a money purse and turned to bow to the crowd, the arena exploded once more into cheers.

They don't realize they're not Romans any more, Stirling thought sadly. They've maintained the trappings, but Rome has long since gone from their lives.

Ancelotis' response surprised him. We never believed ourselves Romans, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu. But we are a civilized people, as civilized as Rome ever was. We teach our sons and daughters Latin and Greek and bring them up on Plato and Aristotle and Julius Caesar and Cicero. We pass on to our children, and their children in turn, the skilled trades which the Roman legions and colonists brought among us, adding to our own skills in metallurgy and healing and the arts and suchlike. And we are just as determined as Rome to preserve our way of life when barbarians threaten our borders. This is all that really matters, is it not? To safeguard the beliefs and learned arts which Britons share, from the Wall to the southern tip of Cerniw, no matter which tribe or kingdom is at immediate risk? Artorius lives for this purpose only: to protect Britons from marauding savages. It is a good purpose. It is enough.

It
was
a good purpose—the same purpose which had sent Stirling plunging through time itself. He realized with a chill that it would be all too easy to be seduced by the desire to
help
these people; to interfere in beneficial ways he couldn't afford, given the danger to humanity's entire future. Ancelotis, distracted by instructions Emrys Myrddin was giving him, fortunately didn't hear that last thought. The Scots king would doubtless consider Stirling's failure to assist whenever and however possible as base treason.

At some unexplored level he didn't want to probe too closely, perhaps it was.

Weary runners exited through the starting gates, stepping past Stirling and Emrys Myrddin on their way out of the arena. Following Myrddin's instructions, Stirling reined his charger into the nearest starting stall. Cutha, red-eyed but sitting straight in his saddle—a much inferior type of saddle, possessing neither the Celtic style's supportive horns nor its innovative stirrups—grinned at Stirling and gave a mocking salute before entering another of the starting gates.

Behind him, Myrddin said, "May God and your ancestors look favorably upon you, Ancelotis."

Stirling nodded. Gilroy appeared like a silent shadow, handing Stirling a long thrusting spear reminiscent of Swiss pikes, a slimmer Roman-style
pilum,
with its javelinlike haft and long-necked soft iron barb, and an iron-rimmed shield of heavy oak. The shield had been built up from multiple layers laid crosswise one above the other for strength, as modern marine plyboard was made, sawn into an oval shape that was slightly curved toward the edges. An iron boss jutted up from the center, topped with a nasty spike that gave Stirling all sorts of darkly intriguing ideas.

He slid his left hand through leather-wrapped iron braces on the back, then slid the pike and the
pilum
into rawhide holders strapped to his saddle horns. He wondered uneasily how Ancelotis would manage shield, weapons, and reins all at the same time and received a snort of derision in response. Clearly, Ancelotis knew what he was doing.

Glad one of us does,
Stirling muttered to himself.

Directly overhead, a man on the officials' balustrade, invisible on the parapet from Stirling's perspective inside the starting gate, began shouting out a speech that Stirling finally realized was a benediction, rather than instructions to the combatants. The exhortations to abide by the rules of conduct laid down by God, to strive with all one's might to find the truth and live by it, to strike no wicked blows, etc.
ad infinitum,
were an odd blend of early Christian dogma and lingering pagan values. Cutha, a confirmed pagan, was struggling not to howl with laughter—the sound of snorted and ill-mannered mirth drifted from Cutha's chosen starting stall, two gates down.

The moment the sermon or benediction or whatever it was came to an end, Stirling's valet fled, scrambling out the front of the starting box, loaded down with extra shields and weapons. Gilroy ran hell-for-leather toward a spot along the sandstone wall that separated the arena floor from the lowest circuit of seats. The wall was just slightly too high for a man to jump and reach the top. Gilroy stacked the shields against the base of the wall and piled a fistful of
pila
beside them, along with a second thrusting pike, even a spare
spatha—
a long, heavy-bladed, two-edged Roman cavalry sword with its characteristically blunt, rounded tip.

Curiously, one of Cutha's thanes, busy at the same task on the opposite side of the arena, laid out nothing but spare shields, and only two of those. A psychological ploy, perhaps, demonstrating supreme confidence that he would need nothing more? Or sheer, blind arrogance, incapable of imagining defeat? Stirling didn't care for the implications, either way.

Men with wide-tined wooden rakes worked in gangs to smooth the sandy track surface, removing animal dung from previous horse races, a shoe some unfortunate runner had lost, and dozens of colorful little twists of plaid woolen scraps. Ancelotis, sensing Stirling's curiosity, commented,
Even a poor man can afford to shower a favorite who wins a laurel, if he bundles up the tailings from his wife's loom. In the days of the Romans, they say people threw coins more often than flowers, so a man could grow rich at the games. If,
Ancelotis added with a dour laugh,
he survived the arena.

A fairly substantial "if."

Signal trumpets rang out again from somewhere above Stirling's head, a shimmer of brassy notes defying the sullen pewter of the sky. His pulse picked up at the sound, thudding in his eardrums and beating at his throat, a heady mixture of anticipation, pre-combat jitters, cold anger at Brenna McEgan for having forced him to come after her, and a healthy dollop of sheer, schoolboy excitement. He was about to participate in an honest-to-God sixth-century duel, with
King Arthur
as the ruddy field judge. For a boy raised in broody grey hills steeped in Arthurian lore, it just didn't get much better than this.

If he lived to see the end of it.

The trumpets sang out again and the men raking the arena floor rushed toward arched exits at track level, swinging shut heavy iron gates as they gained whichever access tunnel was closest. A series of muffled booms like distant cracks of thunder rolled across the arena as the massive grillwork gates slammed shut. These, clearly, were leftovers from the era of gladiatorial games and bestiary fights, which would have produced a fine and grisly abundance of corpses to be dragged off the field between successive bouts. The arena was, Stirling had to admit, beautifully engineered for its bloody purpose. He was thankful this was
not
a genuine gladiatorial death match, even if Cutha harbored intentions of making it one.

On the balustrade overhead, an official shouted: "Upon the trumpets' next signal, you will leave the starting gates and ride a countersunwise circle around the full distance of the arena. Cutha will then return to the far end of the course and turn to face the starting gates. The trumpets will signal the beginning of your charge with lances. If your lance strikes anywhere but an opponent's shield, you will be instantly disqualified and your opponent named victor. The aim of this combat is to exhibit skill at arms in honor of King Lot Luwddoc and King Dumgual Hen, not to maim or kill your opponent. Combat will end the moment a man has been deprived of all his weapons and shields, including those held in reserve, or when he formally yields. A man rendered unconscious will be judged to have yielded, granting his opponent victory. May Almighty God, slayer of heathens, who smites the sinner with His flaming sword, strengthen your sword arm and lend you the cunning to achieve victory. Amen."

If that so-called benediction was meant to include Cutha, Stirling would eat his horse, hooves and all. Ancelotis gave a snort of laughter.
It's perceptive you are, that's certain.
Then the trumpets sang out and it was time. Ancelotis put heels to his charger's flanks and the horse shot from the gate at a thunderous pace. The stallion required a firm hand on the reins and several stern verbal commands before Ancelotis could collect the animal's stride and hold him to the decorous pace demanded by a formal lap around the arena. The immense war-horse seemed almost to levitate across the long straight stretch of sand, so smooth was the action of that effortless floating trot.

Stirling had been to Vienna once, to see the Lipizzaners dance, gliding more like great white birds than stallions of solid flesh and bone, descendants of Europe's finest war-horses, capable of killing a man with those ancient battlefield maneuvers they performed so gracefully. Here, under the sullen rain-bruised sky, there was no chandeliered ballroom, no raked tanbark ring beneath marble balustrades, no portraits done by Europe's finest master painters, no loudspeakers, no great classical scores penned by Vienna's most gifted composers. The comparison began and ended with Ancelotis' war-horse, which had clearly been schooled by similar methods in similar maneuvers and doubtlessly at nearly as great a cost.

Sterling's presence made Ancelotis' grip with thighs and calves less certain than normal, sending the animal mixed signals and causing it to fret and sweat down its neck and flank. Cutha's horse, not nearly as massive as Ancelotis', had also broken from the starting stall at a canter, sweeping down the long stretch of straightway less than a sword-length's distance from Ancelotis. Neither man so much as looked at the other, which was intensely irritating to Stirling, who wanted to learn as much detail of the Saxon's equipage as he possibly could before coming to blows with any of it.